Weeknotes: November 11-15, 2024

Monday, November 11

On WCBN the DJ plays four Alvvays songs in a row. I think about driving to Cleveland with Serge this past spring to see them play the Agora Ballroom. We had a fun night. Ever since, I've wanted to title a song "Alvvays in Cleveland." My brother and his girlfriend went to Cleveland a couple weeks ago to see the Mongolian folk metal band the Hu and visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for the first time. I told him to give my regards to Colin Blunstone's sweater. He sent me a picture with the caption "I am changed." 

Last week, in my disgust with the will of the American people, I vowed to abandon news radio for a while. I need to calibrate my intake of bad tidings, so I've just been cruising through my vinyl collection in alphabetical order. I don't know how far I'll get, but it's been a nice distraction. It took me most of the week to get through the As. I cooked a pasta dinner to Accordions in the Cutover, a collection of Czech, Croatian, and Finnish folk music from Michigan's Upper Peninsula. I cranked AC/DC's "Who Made Who" and Trevor Horn's (Who's Afraid of) the Art of Noise. I devoted much of Sunday to the B-52's. Who can feel sad listening to them? Sometimes the discord between selections is amusing. Today the Beach Boys Love You (not great, but maybe worth hanging onto for Dean Torrence's wonderful cover design) segues into an unlabeled 10" of Aaron Dilloway's grunting deep noise project the Beast People.

Tuesday, November 12

It's Beatles day on my A-Z vinyl census. Most of my Beatles collection is on CD (the 2012 remasters), so it's a relatively brief listen. I do have the American Beatles '65 release with the great umbrella photo on the cover. I bought this in high school during a spring break trip to Tennessee. For some reason "I Feel Fine" really vibrates on this copy and it always gives me a thrill. I also have my parents' copies of the Red and Blue double album compilations. Side one, disc one of the Red Album is kind of astounding. Seven world-conquering pop singles that were the fevered heart of Beatlemania. 

"Love Me Do"
"Please Please Me"
"From Me To You"
"She Loves You"
"I Want To Hold Your Hand"
"All My Loving"
"Can't Buy Me Love"

And that's just 1963 going into '64! Unbelievable. My parents saw them in 1965 at Comiskey Park in Chicago. The early Beatles catalog always reminds me of them. In the evening I meet up for drinks with the GLMS boys. Greg gives Fido a new harmonica and it makes me think of John Lennon playing harp on "Love Me Do" and "Please Please Me," then deftly tucking in his lapel pocket just in time to cover his vocal and guitar parts. On stage, GLMS consciously emulated the Beatles by sharing mics. Although every member sang, we intentionally denied ourselves enough mics so that two members always had to double up on one. We lacked the wonderful symmetry of Paul and George with their guitar necks sprouting in opposite directions, but I always thought it looked and sounded more unified with two singers leaning to share backing vocals.

Wednesday, November 13

If it speaks well, it reads well. I don't remember when I first started reading my work aloud, but I do it all the time now and it helps me edit, spellcheck, and trim out unnecessary language. I used to act in high school, so maybe it's my latent Thespian asserting himself. I recite all my work assignments before submitting them, a last step before they reach my copy editor. I often talk out emails before I send them. I'll no doubt speak this post before publishing it. I find it to be one of the good habits that came out of the pandemic era.

I have a contractor in my apartment today replacing the shower tiles and removing some rot from the walls behind them. He's a lovely, courteous guy who I've met before and does his best to keep the noise and disruptions at a minimum. Even so, he's a new presence in my space which makes me feel self conscious about my recitation habit. A few times at my desk I find my mouth opening to read back a passage, then catch myself. 

I work steadily all day, pausing mostly to flip records as I cycle through the Bs in the vinyl census. Today begins with the Beaver Brothers' Ventriloquisms on through Bernice's Cruisin'. I take advantage of a sunny spell to remove my window screens and clean all the glass inside and out. It's my favorite pre-winter ritual. My least favorite is trying to coil the million foot garden hose which leaks dank water onto my jeans and boots while I struggle to wrangle it into the shed.

Thursday, November 14

I'm now 12 weeks into my back-to-school experiment with just one month to go in this semester. It's strange to think about the school calendar again. It's been so long. This first semester was a real test and I've not only done well, but enjoyed it. I register for the one winter class I'm certain of and worry about the other one. My schedule will only get harder from here on out and I want to make sure I'll have enough room for my career, music, and social life, while still taking enough credits to satisfy the Reconnect scholarship.

At night I start transferring lyrics into a new notebook. I always use a composition notebook for this. Even if the previous one is not full, I do this about every two years as a way to freshen up the pool of songs-in-progress. I move the long-languishing white whales up to the front, weed out the ones that aren't going anywhere or that I was only excited about for a day or two, and generally take stock of where I'm at. For some reason, I always seem to work on music around Thanksgiving weekend. I don't know if it's the time off work, the start of the holidays, or just an unconscious habit I've developed, but I want to make sure I have my little working habitat ready, just in case. 

Friday, November 15

On the Corner of Olive and Washington, Islay stops for poop. We are on an impromptu walk and I know I don't have a waste bag on me. A two-man lawn crew is across the street strapping on leaf blowers and eying me suspiciously. I make the lame motion of patting down my pockets as the guys yells "hey, you gonna clean that up?" I'm a responsible dog owner and promise to come back in ten minutes, but I can tell they don't believe me. True to my word, I pull up ten minutes later on my way out of town and throw on my hazards. Leaf Blower No. 2 meets me in the street and says "too late, I already stepped in it." I apologize, but he shrugs it off. He seems genuinely astonished that I came back and for a moment we share a mutual sense of goodwill. 

In town I stop at the office and catch the edge of a conversation between two co-workers about pink cocaine. While I flip through classical and jazz promos we veer into '80s talk: Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign, Tipper Gore's censorship crusade, and Twisted Sister. When I walk out to my car there are large tinsel snowflakes decorating the light poles. I take a beat and stand there soaking up their cheery retro warmth, then go buy a roast beef sandwich and eat it in my front seat.